


to have a friend.

by magicites



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Blood, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, injuries, mentions of hilda/marianne, slight Crimson Flower spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 18:23:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20493236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicites/pseuds/magicites
Summary: It's difficult, to strike down classmates. It's equally difficult, though in a different way, to clean their dried blood off another's skin.Or: Edelgard helps bandage Byleth's wounds after a fight with the Alliance.





	to have a friend.

**Author's Note:**

> my (maybe?) controversial edeleth take comes in two parts: 1. i love them. and 2. every song off taylor swift's reputation album and half the songs off lover are edeleth songs.
> 
> title from it's nice to have a friend, by you guessed it, taylor swift

The blood that dries on Byleth’s skin came from many owners. Nameless Alliance soldiers that threw themselves on Byleth’s sword, mostly. People who were perhaps too foolish or too loyal to throw their weapons down and run when they saw her blade glinting in the fierce sunlight. Some of it likely belongs to Edelgard as well, caked under Byleth’s short nails after she tugged Edelgard towards her and healed the wounds that a powerful Ragnanok spell made bloom over her body like dripping scarlet roses.

Some of it is her own, of course. Byleth is both their secret commander and one of their strongest fighters. She and Edelgard are the front line in nearly every battle, this one included.

Some of the blood, the streak that clings to her cheek and stains her white cloak red, is Hilda’s. She did not go down without a fight, screaming so loud that her throat must have been scraped raw by her rage, the same as her shaking hands that gripped her axe tight even in death. She got a decent hit into Byleth’s shoulder, the kind of wound so deep that no amount of healing spells will prevent it from scarring.

“She loved rose petal tea,” Byleth says. They sit in Edelgard’s private chambers, far from the infirmary where they perhaps should both be. “Jewelry, too. Made it in her free time. She had such an eye for gemstones…” Her words trail off into a hiss as Edelgard dabs a rag soaked in alcohol against her bloodied shoulder. The worst of the wound is gone, but the surface still remains marred. It must be cleaned, lest it grow infected. 

She wears nothing but her chest wrappings, though a pile of bandages sit at Edelgard’s side. They wait to be applied to Byleth, once she’s free of blood and grime. Still, the wound must come first. 

“It’s a shame that she refused to surrender,” Edelgard replies. “I would have loved for her to join our cause.”

It was strange, how Claude did not fault them for her death. Byleth approached him with Hilda’s blood splattered across her face, her clothes, her soul, and yet he accepted the horrors of war with an inscrutable grace. 

She wonders if he is at peace, in whatever corner of the world he fled to once they spared his life. 

“At least Marianne didn’t see her fall,” Byleth says. They were close in their academy days, Edelgard remembers. For as dearly as she cares for Lysithea, the girl is terrible at speaking at a respectable volume, despite all the secrets she carries herself. She remembers their conversation in the corner of the Black Eagles classroom so many years ago, mere days before Edelgard declared war against the church. 

_ Marianne’s red face and Lysithea’s shocked gasp of, “You kissed Hilda!?” _

_ “She, u-um, kissed me…” Marianne had said, as if the differentiation changed the meaning of the exchange. As if it did anything to dull the color rising to her normally pale cheeks. _

“I’m glad she didn’t,” she says, making a mental note to have Hubert check on her next time she sees him. The Black Eagle Strike Force have supported her through so much, pledging themselves to her cause even in the years when they were all half-convinced of their precious professor’s death. There are few things Edelgard would not do for them. 

(How it pains her, to know that with each battle she sends her family to death’s doorstep once again.)

With the wound sterilized, Edelgard rises from her seat on the edge of her bed. “Professor,” she says, respectful even when in her private chambers together, lest she tread a boundary too fragile to cross, “do you still have enough reserves to cast a fire spell? Something powerful enough to heat a bowl full of water. Nothing more.”

Byleth has never looked up from her hands, not during their entire conversation, but her mint eyes focus on her fingers. She flexes them slowly, as if her depleted reserves of magic rest within her fingertips. “I should,” she says.

Edelgard could ask someone else to do it, given her own utter lack of proficiency with the entire field of magic. Their healers - Manuela, Linhardt, Marianne - are all occupied by tasks within the infirmary. There are other casters milling about that she could track down and ask. Dorothea would be happy to help, eager to use her magic to help instead of harm, though Edelgard isn’t sure if she’s ready to face the newfound sorrow she knows will take root in that woman’s eyes. Lysithea could, perhaps, or even Felix, and Hubert gladly would, but they all hold conversations within them she does not currently have the time nor the emotional fortitude to withstand.

Most of all, she is loathe to leave Byleth alone with her thoughts long enough to find one of them. At least this way, she only has to go as far as the bathing room.

Edelgard returns before long, a small basin of water sloshing within her hands. She sets it carefully down on the bed before following at its side. Byleth does not need to be told what to do - she rarely has, something Edelgard appreciates about her. Her hands circle the cold metal and emanate a light glow. Within moments, the basin is hot, and the water steams. 

Edelgard takes the pain of nearly-boiling water rushing over her hands as she dunks a clean rag into the liquid. It’s a small price to pay, in the grand scheme of things. Besides, she has endured pains much greater than hot water over the course of her life. The discomfort is worth the reward. 

“Will you face me, Professor?” Edelgard requests, wringing the rag out. The water splashes over her clothes, though the thin layer of armor she wears even now takes the damage for her. 

Byleth does, shifting without another word. Edelgard gets to work, carefully wiping her shoulder until the only traces of red that remain are the ones that belong to the wound itself. A salve follows, prepared by Manuela herself and packed directly onto the wound, before Edelgard secures it in place with the bandages. They fit just above the chest wrappings Byleth wears, allowing her to change those out with ease once she is in the privacy of her own quarters.

(Edelgard thinks briefly of her changing here, with Edelgard’s careful assistance, before banishing the thought with impunity. For as badly as she wants to cross that line, and for as often as she suspects that Byleth wants the same, she cannot. Not until they’ve won. There is still too much to do.)

She works on Byleth’s face first, careful not to irritate the scrapes that linger under the dried blood. Her eyes have always unnerved Edelgard, but she finds herself missing the deep teal that first captivated her all those years ago. Edelgard finds herself unable to meet them this time, though she also fails to miss the way her eyebrows draw closer together in concern. 

“Are you tired? I can finish cleaning myself off if you are,” Byleth says, as if that could possibly be the problem. 

“I’m always tired, Professor. Now no more than usual.”

“Then what’s the matter?”

Edelgard considers obscuring the truth, but once more she’s compelled to bare her soul. Dorothea often called Byleth’s stare unnerving, in the early days when every move she made became a test in Edelgard’s eyes. She finds it inviting now, comforting, like taking off one’s armor after a long day in the brutal sun. They all do.

Edelgard moreso than anyone else, perhaps. 

“My apologies. I just found myself missing the way you used to look,” Edelgard. “I thought the teal was lovely.”

Byleth goes to nod; Edelgard pulls her hand away at the perfect time, right before she could jab Byleth in the eye with the rag. Edelgard sets back to work, gently scraping off a particularly stubborn stain that clings to her temple. Whose blood stains her now is a mystery; it could be anyone’s. It’s better if they don’t think of it at all.

“There are times now when I see you,” Edelgard continues, against her better judgement, “And think of Rhea. What horrible deeds she must have done to you, to make you look this way. What kind of happy life you could have led, if not for her.” What kind of life they all could have led, given their births into a world less broken than the one they inhabit. What beauty could they see, if it weren’t for the false gods and shadowy parasites that burrowed into their spirits and bled them all dry.

“I’m sorry,” Byleth says. Edelgard dips the rag into the basin, turning the clear water within a light pink (_the same shade Hilda’s hair used to be)_, before wringing it between her hands once more and swiping it along Byleth’s forehead. 

“There is nothing to apologize for. If anything, I’m the one who should. I should not have indulged in such dark thoughts.”

“Do you want me to leave?” Byleth’s questions is so innocent, so packed full of care. It stings Edelgard’s heart, or whatever remains of it that the mages didn’t take and the war didn’t wither.

Unconsciously, Edelgard’s grip tightens on the rag, closing until her wrapped fist lays against Byleth’s cheek. Her other hand has somehow found Byleth’s arm and clings to her for dear life. “No,” Edelgard says, her voice thick in her throat. “Please.” She tries to cough, to clear the sound, to be the Emperor she needs to be. “Stay here.” Byleth has always been an expert at disarming Edelgard when she expects it least. Perhaps she is the only one who ever could.

Byleth’s hand comes to find the one on her arm. She runs colder than Edelgard does, to the point of feeling nearly inhuman, but in the sweltering heat of dead bodies and war it comes as a welcome relief. “Okay, El.”

The boundary between them is a porous thing, bending under the weight of the atmosphere that weighs them both down. For this moment only, Edelgard allows herself this reprieve.

She blinks away the tears that gather at her eyes and she continues to help Byleth, one careful swipe at a time.


End file.
